Boundaries
by di.meliora
Summary: It's always been a thing between them, pushing until the other breaks, but what happens when the push goes just a bit too far?


As is the way with so much of their lives, it's not an organic thing that grows naturally out of some smooth progression of events. It doesn't slowly blossom like a flower, doesn't form out of erosion, none of the flowery and pathetic bullshit phrases he saw on the fanfiction sites that one drunken night.

No, when it happens it's something violent and sudden. A car crash or an explosion, as if he should have seen it coming and then suddenly it was there and he didn't know how. He's had the experience before after all. Thought he knew where he was and what was happening and then suddenly blood and pain. There's always anticipation of the moment when the pain comes, but there's no way to prepare for it. Because the body forgets, it's a truth Dean knows above all others, the body forgets what it's like to Ireally/I hurt until the hurt is there. It's the greatest trick the brain can pull.

So one day he's fine, they're brothers and they fight and they make up sort of it and it's all groovy. The world is right. Then they're standing in the latest motel room, Sam's trying to twist around to doctor some slash on his lower back like a cat trying to get at its tail and Dean's laughing until he's not laughing anymore. There's something in the vulnerable twist of Sam's body, the slash of his downturned mouth and the narrowed eyes, that just hits Dean. His brother is fucking attractive.

It's not like Dean didn't know. Not like he's never seen the way women, and the occasional man, look at Sam. No, he knew logically that Sam was an attractive specimen the same way Dean knows that logically he is fucking devastating to look at. It's something else now, a hunger that's burning low in Dean's stomach and that he knows all too well from countless shadowy encounters and sweaty nights. There's Sam, his little brother all fucking grown up, and here's Dean and he's aroused. Not a little bit either, it's a fucking consuming type of need that he can't ignore.

Sam doesn't see it, doesn't look up suddenly and spot the danger that's in the room with him. No his little brother is magically and blissfully unaware. Is simply leaning back and frowning as he tries to apply gauze to the gaping slash and Dean's suddenly hard and angry. It's one more thing he can't blame on Sam, but god does he want to because fuck this. He's got enough on his plate without needing to feel guilty about wanting his gangly, stupid, floppy-haired brother. When Sam finally looks up he's too engrossed in what he's doing to even register whatever expression is currently on Dean's face.

"Hey man, think you could help me out here? I'm having a little trouble." Sam looks annoyed, as if Dean should have offered to do it without Sam having to ask. Maybe that's been the point of Sam struggling with it. Some sort of elaborate show to push Dean into offering instead of Sam having to ask for help. Because heaven forbid Sam ask for Dean to-

Instead of answering he turns to the door, sweeps his wallet and keys off the little nightstand, and leaves without a single word to his little brother. He has to get out before he agrees to help, has to leave before he puts his hands on Sam's skin because there is no telling what will happen when he does. If he'll work on his aggression or his lust, if he'll hurt Sam sexually or in the more traditional manner between them.

He finds himself in a bar staring at the dirty mirror behind the shelves of liquor and drinking himself into a stupor. He turns down two girls in a curt manner, and then sometime around his third or fourth Jack the man comes. He's not tall like Sam, but he has the same softness around his eyes that his little brother has started to lose. Some gentleness that the constant push pull life of hunting has begun to beat out of Sam.

Something about seeing that sets Dean off, has him accepting the man's offer and following him down the street to an old Victorian that's been split up into apartments. He's not sure what he's going to do with the guy, has never really been here before, but the stranger seems to know everything that needs to be done. He prepares himself while Dean watches, tells Dean the angle he wants it at and the pace, and Dean takes over from there. At one point the guy tries to turn and look at Dean, and suddenly he's gripping the strange man's neck and holding his head in place while he fucks into him much harder than he has been. Plowing as if he's in a fight, as if the point is to hurt, and maybe it is but Mark or Matt or whatever his fucking name is doesn't seem to mind. He takes the violence as if it's nothing and when Dean's done he smiles and says that he can come back anytime.

Dean throws his number away before he gets into the Impala and drives back to the motel.

* * *

If Sam's interested in where Dean's been, or why he took off the way he did, he doesn't ask. He simply accepts Dean's mood as something that can't be avoided and throws his brother a beer. Dean watches the way Sam sips at his own, eyes focused on his laptop as he scrolls through some new set of information he'll break down for Dean later. Something new to hunt maybe, although every now and then Sam simply shares trivia and history with Dean. It's a sad truth that the only person in his life who doesn't assume he's a single-minded idiot is also the example everyone uses to come to that conclusion.

He drinks his own beer, eyes focused on the TV even though it's off, and waits until the silence has stretched out far beyond an acceptable time limit. Sam doesn't break it, so Dean does. "Still need help?"

Sam's eyes jerk on the screen, not quite leaving it to see Dean but close. He watches his brother's big hands flex once above the keyboard, but when Sam speaks his voice is falsely bright and genial. "No man, I got it. Thanks though."

That's the last thing that's said between them. After a few minutes Sam shuts the laptop and slides under the covers to go to sleep. Dean rests against the headboard, watching the rise and fall of his brother's shoulder, and then closes his own eyes. He's pretty fucked, and there's no way around that simple truth.

This is going to end bloody.

* * *

Dean handles his arousal the best way he knows how. He annoys Sam until there's no way the two of them can peacefully coexist in the same room. He pulls pranks, cranks the most atrocious hair metal he has until it feels like his eardrums have been violated, gets sloppy drunk and picks up the girl Sam had his eye on. The last one has nothing to do with jealousy, although if Sam knew the context he would certainly suggest it did. No it's entirely an act of self-defense, the need to drive Sam as far away from him as possible without actually driving Sam away.

The result is the most chaotic hunt in their entire history. They end up in the middle of nowhere, Sam whisper-shouting at him to get his shit together as they try to figure out which direction the ghost is going to come from next. It's un-fucking-believable that the murderers managed to dig this far into the ground to bury the girl. Dean's never seen anything like it, because this far off the beaten track they could have just dumped the body and nobody would have been the wiser for a long time.

Instead they're already five feet down and still no sign of the remains. It's occurred to him more than once that they may have the wrong spot, but the marker was here and so the body must be too. He doubts the last of the sniveling sons of bitches was lying, because this was the man's only chance at surviving the night. So here they are, muddy and exhausted, Sam wielding the shotgun loaded with rock salt as Dean takes his turn digging. His shoulders are aching, but it's a familiar ache and it helps him ignore what the huskiness of Sam's voice is doing to him.

"-and thirdly I can't believe you would ignore-"

IThirdly/I, fucking thirdly, because only anal retentive Sam would fucking list his complaints by number in the middle of the night while digging for a corpse.

"Sam, I get that you're mad. I understand. You can shut the fuck up now." Dean throws another shovelful of dirt and then in his haste hits the skull and cracks it. Still, Iyahtzee/I, here's the corpse. They can salt and burn, Sam can shut up, and Dean can go get drunk and find a suitable Sam replacement to work his aggression out on. "See? Day saved, Dean one thousand, ghosts zero."

He finishes uncovering the remains and ignores Sam's silence. Ignores it until the spot at the back of his neck that Sam so often glares at starts to prickle and he finally turns around to stare directly into the bitchface he knows Sam is giving him. Except Sam's not giving him a bitchface, Sam's not giving him any face. Sam isn't there. Instead the bloody face of the girl buried in front of him is grinning, and Dean can see through her just clearly enough to spot the limp form of his brother tangled underneath a tree. It's too dark to see if there's blood, but Dean doesn't need to see it to know it's there. It takes a lot of trauma to knock a grown man out, and Sam's out for the count.

Dean bites the inside of his cheek, one hand going up to his hair in an "aw shucks" motion as he slides the iron-headed shovel down into a better swinging position.

"I don't suppose you'd accept an apology and a polite goodbye?"

She's not buying his charming smile, so Dean leaps back and slams into the earthy walls of the grave even as he swings the shovel. It's not the best angle, and there's not even a little bit of extra space here, but he manages to hit the ghost dead on and blow her into tiny spirit molecules.

It's enough of a head start for him to dump the salt, swing the shovel into her again, and then pour the gasoline. He gets thrown a few feet for his trouble, and there's a terrible couple of minutes where he's digging around for the lighter in the dark even as she's roaring back towards him.

He manages though, as he always does, to pull it off just in time. The lighter hits the gas, and then it's all over and done with. No more worry about that, so now all that's left is collecting Sam from the ground and getting his unwieldy brother into the damn car and out of the woods. He can check Sam's injuries when they're safely beyond the salt lines back at the motel.

How he lugs Sam back through the dense underbrush and onto the scraggly trail he's not entirely sure. Sam doesn't even stir through all of the bumping and the dragging, and if he's been woken up even a little bit by the rough handling he's not making a sound about it. Not even when Dean drops him on the ground and pulls him the last sixteen feet over a bed of scree and then half launches him into the backseat of the car.

The ride back is almost silent, save for Dean muttering curse words at the still form of his little brother and the sound of the tires devouring the road beneath them. He pulls into the space in front of the room door even though he was always taught to park far enough away to throw off the trail of anyone looking. He half carries, half drags Sam across the little walkway and into the tacky room before dropping him onto a bed and redoing the salt line he's just broken.

For some unknown reason Pink Floyd is playing in Dean's head, and he almost hums along to "Echoes" as he finishes fixing their protection and turns to Sam. His brother's eyes have finally opened just a crack, and he can see how blurry and unfocused they are. He kneels down and takes a good long look at the deep gash above Sam's right eye, the bruising already evident around it, and the small bits of bark planted in the open wound. Bitch must have bashed Sam's head into the tree four or five times to do this much damage, and somehow Dean didn't hear a moment of it.

He wants to ask if Sam's ok, how many Deans he sees, something either casual or concerned, but what comes out is a low growl. "How the fuck did you manage this one Sammy?"

Sam blinks once, and then looks around the room as if it's something new he's never seen before. "How'd we get back here?" He reaches out for Dean, and manages to poke him in the eye before he finds Dean's shoulder.

Dean bites back the curse word he wants to launch at Sam and blinks against the tears the well up in that eye. "I carried your big ass to the car. How. The fuck. Did this happen?"

Sam finally seems to recognize that Dean is Iangry/I, and he blinks once or twice before squeezing Dean's shoulder harder than is strictly necessary. "What? I got thrown. I shouted but you were-"

"You did not fucking shout Sam. I would have heard you shout." He would have, because he was attuned to it like nothing else. The sound of Sam's voice has been the center of Dean's world for so much of his life it's impossible to think anything else. Except he was ignoring Sam, ignoring him and focusing on the work so he wouldn't think about how good Sam looked highlighted by the flashlight's beam. So he wouldn't think about how badly he wanted to throw Sam down and just-

IFuck/I. Maybe Sam did shout. Maybe he shouted and Dean missed it, as he's missed so many things in the last few weeks. Trying so hard to ignore this weird fucking hunger he has he's managed to overlook a lot of things. Like how Sam appears to have lost weight, or the weird shadows under his little brother's eyes that only emphasize how bad the injury is.

As if his hands know better than his brain he's already pulling Sam off the bed and leading him to the bathroom where he can lean against the toilet tank and examine his damaged skull in a better light. The fluorescents are hard on Sam's usually tan skin tone, and they make the shadows deeper even as Dean is opening the first aid kit and pulling out the thin tweezers.

It's nostalgic, almost soothing really, to remove those long splinters from Sam's skin. His brother whines, big hands moving restlessly between his knees as Dean works. Unbidden soothing noises he hasn't made in years come out his mouth. A mishmash of "Aw Sammy" and "I got you, it's ok I got you".

The whining stops, and Sam simply stares at him through squinted eyes as if Dean's too bright to look at. That may the effect of the bathroom light but Dean doesn't question it. Just continues to clean out the wound and work on the growing need inside him to grab Sam and shake him until he stops. Dean's not even sure what Sam needs to stop doing, but he feels the need so keenly it's almost overwhelming.

Eventually Sam talks, voice thick and heavy in the back of his throat. "You really mad at me?" He looks like he did when he was just a little kid, eyes overly big and guileless. Dean has to swallow hard to figure out how to respond even as he finishes cleaning out the gash and starts to use butterfly closures to pull Sam's skin back together.

"No. I'm not mad. Shut up." He gets three of them on before Sam grabs at his hands and stops the motion, the two of them frozen there with the fourth strip in Dean's hands and his eyes focused somewhere between Sam's nose and his lips.

"Kiss me." Sam's earnest, open, and Dean wants to hit him. Hit him so hard his brother goes back to sleep and then Dean can ignore that this happened and go to some bar. Except Sam can't go to sleep because he's got a fucking concussion, and whose fault is that really? Dean's. Just like Sam's look of confusion is Dean's fault. All his fault, always and forever amen.

"Sam. What the fuck man. How hard did you knock your head?" He goes for casual and knows from the waver there that he's failed. Instead he tries applying the last suture so he can get back and away from Sam.

"You've been going out. For guys. I can be a guy Dean. I can be a guy." Sam's nodding his big stupid head, making the wound a moving target even as Dean's following the motions in a futile attempt to get this last strip on and put distance between them.

Sam has a head wound, Sam is hurt, Sam doesn't know what the fuck he's saying. "Ok Ali, you're a little punch drunk there. Let's get this on and then-"

But Sam has his hands again and he's squeezing them as he leans in to press his lips against Dean's. His mouth is pliant, soft, and Dean forgets for just a moment what he's supposed to be doing in the interest of tasting Sam for the first time. Tasting and judging every stand-in wanting in comparison. Sam tastes like blood and dirt, like a cold beer after hours of hot mechanic work, like a thousand things that Dean simply wants to drown in. He's thinking in flowery metaphors, and it's that realization that sets him free enough to pull away from Sam and get himself moving.

His little brother is pale, wide-eyed, and for a second he thinks Sam is going to tell him he liked it, or that he wants to go further, or that Dean's a goddamn pervert. Instead Sam vomits, and Dean's grateful for the death of his arousal as he deals with the aftereffects of a serious head wound.

* * *

It's been a month since the night the ghost dragged Sam off and bashed his head into the tree until the world went dark. A month since Sam kissed Dean, and his older brother has done nothing in return. The little acts of war have changed though. Dean's no longer antagonizing him the way he did before. There's a tenderness now to Dean's insults, a return to gentility even as Dean switches all his boxers out for ones a size too small, short-sheets his bed, fills his shoes with pudding.

Sam responds in kind as best he can. Loads Dean's stereo with alt rock tapes and sets the volume to maximum level, leaves anchovies in his brother's duffel, slips laxatives into Dean's pie. This last one is seen as an act of aggression on par with attacking the Impala, and Dean plays the wounded damsel for a week as Sam laughs every time Dean flinches at the sight of pie.

Most importantly though, Sam cockblocks Dean at every opportunity. There's never a moment he leaves his brother alone, and when the wide-eyed girls approach Sam is right there. He gives them looks Dean can't see, puts his hand on the back of his brother's chair and lifts one appraising eyebrow. Only one woman hasn't gotten the subtle hints, and Sam goes out of his way to get the girl alone long enough to spin some gratuitous lie about a bet he and his boyfriend have about how easy she'd be to bed.

She slaps Dean and leaves the bar in tears.

If his brother knows what he's doing he doesn't say anything. The pranks continue, but after the girl crying they take on a new aspect. Dean pours water in Sam's bed, and Sam responds by climbing into his brother's bed and curling up beside him. Sam switches the knobs in the shower and Dean leaps out of the burning hot spray and pays Sam back by spending the evening in a loosely draped towel, complaining about being hot and burned.

He didn't miss the change, the sudden heat in Dean's eyes or avoidance when Sam was evenly vaguely exposed. He followed Dean after a while, saw the kind of guys Dean left the bar with, and put it all together fairly quickly.

Sam would be lying if he said it didn't freak him out at first. He knows rather extensively the fiction Chuck's books have produced, knows what people think about them, but it's never been an aspect of their relationship. There's never been a time when Sam looked at Dean and found himself Iwanting/I. At least not until Dean took the option off the table.

Maybe it's natural to want what's denied to you, or maybe it's something Sam's always considered subconsciously, but whatever drives it he suddenly has to know. Has to see where the road ends if he takes it. The night of the ghost and the head wound is the turning point, the moment when a half-thought experiment becomes a real thing. He's pushing Dean, and he knows it, subtly manipulating his older brother into more and more physical contact in an effort to see what will break that legendary self-control. How far Dean can bend before he fucking snaps.

It's almost a natural extension of everything they've done before. The constant prank wars, the not so subtle pulls and pushes. Since they were children they've specialized in finding the other's buttons. Now Sam is simply exploring a new set of borders he never knew existed.

He starts licking his lips when they're talking, watches the way Dean tracks the movement with narrowed eyes. He sleeps in only his boxers despite the cold of some of their motel rooms, bends over to pick things up instead of crouching, and takes up a nightly habit of half-naked exercises in front of Dean. Watches the way his brother's face hardens, how his green eyes go cold and hot all at once, how Dean follows every push as if missing it would have dire consequences.

He loves it, loves every second of it, and Dean seems to figure it out too slowly. Three months after the ghost attack he finds himself tired of waiting for Dean to break. He wants to know the limit and by god he's going to find it.

Sam waits until he gets the text message that Dean is heading back, then strips down to nothing and spreads out on the bed before taking himself in hand. It's strange really, he's never performed this way for anyone before. If he wanted a girl after Jess died he'd simply wait for the offer and take it. Before that, with Jess, he always let her be the aggressor. It wasn't that he didn't want sex as much as she did, it just always seemed a bit of a hassle to go for it. Maybe that's why Dean's always calling him a prude, but Sam's never been prudish. Not really.

When his brother walks in and sees him spread out there, one hand stroking his cock and the other manipulating his heavy sack, there's a long silence where Sam thinks Dean is going to walk right back out the door and not come back. Maybe this wasn't the best idea, maybe he misread the entire situation, but he's just not sure.

He sees the green darken, watches as Dean's lips go so tight they're just a hint of a line, and then Dean's kicking the door shut with one foot and unzipping the old leather jacket with the hand that's not holding a case of beer. Sam doesn't speak, waits and watches as Dean puts the beer down and drops his jacket, almost casually really, onto the back of a chair. He takes a seat on the bed opposite Sam and then reaches for the beer, twists the cap off before taking a long swallow.

Somehow Dean manages to do all of this without ever breaking eye contact, and now Sam is really wondering if maybe he hasn't crossed the wrong line. He's seen the almost predatory gaze his brother gives the girls in bars, and this certainly isn't it. If Dean used this on those women they would run. Sam's not sure he won't run himself.

His hand has stopped entirely, and Dean stretches one booted foot out and nudges Sam's hand with the steel-toe. "Well. You started little brother. You should finish."

Sam's mouth is suddenly dry, his hands shake only slightly before he's gripping tight and beginning the motion he knows so well. He doesn't manage any artistry under the intensity of Dean's gaze. Instead he's left with a fairly simplistic tugging motion as he licks dry lips with an equally arid tongue and stares into Dean's eyes. He's reminded of nature documentaries, of mice staring at snakes before being devoured. Except his brother has always been more Rikki-Tikki-Tavi than Nag.

Dean leans in, devilish grin not quite reaching his eyes, and licks his own pink lips. "Who taught you to jack it Sammy? It's all force and no finesse. Gonna strip yourself raw that way. Spit on your palm."

When Sam hesitates Dean grips his wrist and disengages his hand from his member. Sam's helpless to respond, trapped in Dean's gaze as his brother lifts the hand and spits into it. He lowers it back down, uses Sam's own fingers to nudge his dick, and then Sam's gripping himself while Dean holds his wrist. He lets Dean lead the way, set the pace, and the whole time all he can do is stare.

"I gotta tell yah Sammy, I really thought all those years at college you'd at least have learned how to do this. Maybe you got lazy though. Flick your wrist a bit on the way up, squeeze the head. See? That's better now isn't it?"

As if some spell has been cast Sam finds himself nodding, doing everything Dean says. He watches Dean lean backwards, arms propped up behind him and head cocked as if he's watching a particularly interesting TV show. Sam wants to speak, wants to ask what Dean's going to do, if this will be more, but the best he can get out is a moan as his wrist moves in the motion Dean suggested.

"That's it Sam. You got it. Now, why don't you just take this little game a few steps forward. Wanna turn me on? Wanna see what'll make me break down?" Dean's eyes have an aggressive light now, an accusation in every line of his body as he watches Sam writhe on the bed in front of him. Sam wants to deny and can't.

"Yes." It's carried out of him on a moan, dragged out by Dean's gaze. The smile he gets in return is enough to make him shudder even as he feels precome leaking heavily over his fingers.

Instead of answering right away Dean grabs Sam's other wrist, the one attached to the hand at his balls, and lifts it up. He takes one deep whiff as if memorizing the scent of Sam clinging to his fingers and then licks two of Sam's digits. Sucks them in deep and hollows out his cheeks which speeds up the motion of Sam's other hand and has his brain flying in a thousand directions.

Dean releases them with an audible pop. Smiles wickedly even as he lowers Sam's hand back down and slides both slick fingers against Sam's hole. "Fuck yourself Sammy. Open yourself up for me. That's the straw that'll break the camel's back."

And damn if Sam doesn't do it. He bites back the hiss when he breaches himself, winces at how surprisingly painful it is, but Dean's gripping his other wrist and speeding his hand back up to distract him. So there's Sam, thinking he was so fucking smart, and now he's completely falling apart under Dean's lust.

Dean leans all the way in, lips ghosting against Sam's as he releases the wrist and Sam fucking whimpers at the loss of contact. "Sammy. Scissor them, go slow. You can act the slut but I know the truth baby boy."

Sam whimpers again, feels the heat in his face at the sound, but he moves his fingers the way Dean told him to. Opens himself slowly as Dean watches, and finally,I fucking finally/I, Dean starts to respond. He watches Dean strip down, uncover miles of tanned and scarred skin under Sam's slitted gaze.

His brother doesn't talk as he collects lube from his duffel, drizzles some over his own blunt fingers and then nudges Sam's hand out of the way and enters him. It's three instead of two, but Dean briskly finds Sam's prostate and that makes the painful burn so much better. He grunts and moans as Dean finger fucks him, pulling on his own dick as fast as he can. He hears something like a laugh come out of Dean's mouth, and then the fingers are gone and his hand is pulled off his cock with no warning.

He's left spread open and vulnerable under Dean's gaze, trying to look defiant even though the only thing he feels is desperation and need. Dean strokes him once with that lubed hand, and then the hand is gone and Dean's slicking himself up and pushing just the head against Sam's opening.

"Beg me Sammy. Say you're sorry for teasing and beg me to make it better." Dean's voice is liquid sex, harsher and rougher than Sam's ever heard it and better than he ever imagined it could be. Pupils overwhelming what little green is left as Dean hypnotizes Sam with his stare.

"I-oh-shit-" He pushes up once but Dean pulls back, uses one hand for leverage and the other to shove roughly at Sam's hip and push him back into the scratchy comforter.

"What's a matter college boy? You had such a good vocabulary before. Beg Sam, or I walk right now." Sam doesn't believe for a second that Dean's lying.

"Fuck me. Please. Please. Fuck me. I'll do anything Dean just-jesus-Icome on/I." It's enough. Whatever's in his tone or his word choice is enough, because Dean pushes in and Sam's learning a new lesson in pain.

All the aggression is gone, Dean's halfway in and muttering soothing little phrases as he strokes Sam's hair and holds still. He can feel the way his brother's legs are trembling, the way Dean's bicep jerks as he holds himself up and only half in. He doesn't try to move, just breathes as Dean is directing him to do and tries to remember why this seemed like a good idea.

It takes a while, Dean's gentle calling of his name and the way his lips brush against Sam's ear isn't enough, but when Dean takes his cock in hand and starts to stroke Sam remembers that this can be good too. He feels Dean ease in, all the way, and when he's seated fully Sam sighs in relief and they stay that way.

There's silence for a bit, no motion coupled with the lack of sound making Sam tense, and then Dean takes a deep breath and licks the shell of Sam's ear. "I didn't want this."

It's cold water on Sam's over-heated skin, a terrible reminder of all the times Sam has manipulated Dean into doing the exact opposite of what he wants. He tries to pull away but Dean's already moving backwards and then sliding back in. He does it four times before he hits Sam's prostate again, and then the world goes blurry and he's grabbing Dean's shoulders and calling his brother's name.

Any guilt is put on the back burner, forgotten in the heat of Dean's movements and the motion of Dean's callused hand on his dick. He lets himself be consumed, lets Dean take his mouth and eat his moans as he thrusts back upwards into Dean. The pain is still there but it's so minimal in the face of the heat and friction. It takes a long time for Dean to speed up, but when the pace changes Sam rides along with.

He's lying there, Dean buried inside of him and wrapped around him, and he realizes it may have never been about teasing Dean for teasing's sake. It may have always been about Sam wanting this, needing this intimacy from his usually recalcitrant brother. He's in too deep now, unable to take back his own actions, and suddenly the guilt is almost as heavy as the pleasure.

He reaches his climax first, comes down as Dean is grunting his way to his own, and then it's all over. He feels sticky, stretched and achy, and against his will tears come.

He doesn't realize how obvious they are until Dean starts to kiss them away, and isn't that just Ifucking/I wonderful. After all that Dean is comforting him. He goes to tell Dean to fuck off, to disappear, and all that comes out is a croaky, "I'm sorry."

His brother pulls back, confusion obvious, and Sam's left feeling cold in all the places they aren't connected anymore.

"What the hell are you sorry for?" Dean sounds put upon, almost offended, and Sam's left wondering about how to best word that Dean has once again sacrificed himself for Sam's selfish bullshit.

"You didn't-you said-I made you do this." It's a simplified version of the truth. Of the horrible truth.

"Oh shit Sam. No not-Ifuck/I-" He feels strong hands pulls him up, and suddenly despite the size difference he's being cradled like he's five again and has a skinned knee. "Sammy. Sam stop it. Jesus Sasquatch cut that shit out."

It takes a while for him to get it under control again, and when he does he keeps his head down because this couldn't be going any worse if he tried. "Sorry Dean."

"Stop fucking apologizing you big idiot. I didn't want it to be about who could push the other one harder. I didn't want it to be rough. Not your first time. But this-fuck Sam I wanted this. So stop beating yourself up ok?"

It's a few minutes before Sam finally manages to pull back and meet Dean's eyes. To see how honestly offended Dean is at the idea that he wouldn't have wanted to do this. Sam takes a deep breath and tries to remember how they got to this point.

As if reading his mind, Dean grins in that careless way that always makes Sam crazy and then leans back and dry scrubs his face. "This is why I never do virgins. Always pleading and then tears."

Sam will argue until the day he dies that Dean deserves the split lip he gives him. More importantly he won't admit he's smiling the whole fucking time.

The next day Dean gets laxative coffee, and Sam laughs every time Dean has to hastily take an exit and head for a gas station.


End file.
